Entrecôte

AKSEL

April, Karine, Daniel and Arast.

My players.

Daniel and Arast are twin brothers, sons of the founder and CEO of Orion Bank. Karine's father runs Kamurj, the largest construction company in Yerevan. And April… a scholarship student.

Their final session today is a group practice, leaving my evening entirely at my disposal. Unfortunately, it's already been disposed of. Family dinner.

I step into my apartment in Yerevan. It's roughly five times smaller than the one I had in London, which mostly means fewer empty rooms.

The place was purchased barely two weeks ago through Kamurj, with Orion Bank handling the property transaction.

Convenient.

For as long as I can remember, everywhere I turned, I found people connected by an invisible web: every face, every name.

Some threads were thin, some thick. Some straight, some tangled beyond recognition. But follow them long enough and they always converged on the same person. My father. 

No matter where I turned, I could feel the shape of his presence. No matter how far I tried to move, something always pulled me back, as if he had fixed a magnet under the floor of my life.

My school friends were the sons of his business partners. My first girlfriend was the daughter of one of the largest shareholders in his company. My teachers, my coaches, nearly every adult who passed through my life somehow belonged to the same network.

Until Dvořák's team contacted me—

The hot shower loosens my muscles, though my thoughts remain stubbornly attached to older, more painful things.

Over the years, this particular spiral of thought has become something of a ritual before family dinners. There are two things I've never managed to avoid: memories and family dinners.

The dinners, at least, used to be rare. Getting the entire family into the same city at the same time was an infrequent occurrence. But now my sister and I both live in Yerevan—she's been here for three months already—and I'm beginning to worry that the dinners may become considerably more frequent.

White shirt. Navy suit.

No tie.

Cufflinks. Watch. Brown Oxford shoes.

Ready to enter the dragon's den.

***

My father sits at the head of the table. To his right are Anahit and Hovhannes. Across from Anahit sits my mother, and beside her, me.

A lock of brown hair has fallen across Anahit's slightly hollowed cheek. Her face has grown thinner in recent months, taking on a more elongated shape.

The conversation remains pleasant through the appetizers and soup. We discuss mom's recent trip to Italy, Hovhannes's school, Anahit's latest hobby, a major case my father's firm has just won, and, inevitably, Armenia's first tennis academy.

"Let's get this straight, Aksel. What's your plan after the Armenian tournament?” 

Father’s question sends me tumbling backwards through the years, into the same conversation I've spent most of my life trying to avoid.

My father was never pleased with my decision to pursue tennis. Even when I was still in school, he brought me to meetings at the firm, slowly shaping me into the future partner of Batrikean & Partners. By the final years of high school, when university applications were approaching, my decision to choose tournaments over a law degree was interpreted as a personal betrayal.

What's your plan? He asks the same question now, convinced that coaching is merely a transitional phase. As though my life consists of draft chapters he can continue revising until the story finally follows the outline he prepared for it.

"Since one of my players will win Nationals, my plan is to accompany the winner to England,” I reply with the calm that seems to run in our family.

One of my father's eyebrows rises.

”England? As a coach?"

At that exact moment, Anahit's staff enter the dining room carrying the main course: entrecôte with grilled asparagus and herb butter.

My father, however, has never been known to abandon a line of questioning.

"Then let's be clear. Becoming a tennis coach in England has become your highest ambition?"

"My highest ambition became permanently unattainable some time ago," I reply with the same calm.

The room fills with the smell of meat and spice, and somewhere in the silence, the atmosphere begins to heat.

The staff leave the room.

My mother clears her throat, a gentle, well-practiced signal that my father should ease off.

Father goes first. Then the rest of us follow, cutting into our steaks and tasting the first bite. A trace of meat juice catches in his large, curling mustache. He wipes his mouth with two precise movements of a linen napkin and, changing battlefields, remarks:

"Tony Brown will be visiting our offices in September. It would be good if you were in London. I'd like to introduce you."

Tony Brown is precisely the sort of client Batrikean & Partners was built for: a billionaire with several complicated, multi-million-dollar lawsuits on the horizon.

Real estate, energy, technology. His portfolio stretches across all three sectors, and over the past few years he's found himself at the center of a growing collection of high-profile legal disputes involving corporate mergers, patent infringement, and environmental regulations.

Brown lives in the United States now. In September he'll likely spend time visiting several of London's most prestigious law firms before deciding which one will represent him. If he chooses Father's firm, it won't just mean another major client. It will strengthen the firm's standing in elite corporate litigation and open doors to even larger ones.

Father's reason for wanting me to meet Brown is perfectly clear. It's meant to impress upon me the value of high-caliber clients. Better yet, to teach me the value of managing powerful people. Another careful step toward corporate law. Another attempt to ensure that the family firm remains exactly where it has always been: representing the wealthy elite and managing their legal affairs.

“September is still a long way off, Father. We'll see.” It's the only response I can manage without sounding openly hostile.

"Given the importance of the meeting, choosing to miss it would be unwise, son," Father replies with deliberate firmness.

Translated into plain English:

You'd be wise to start getting used to the idea that you'll be attending.

A heavy silence follows. The air fills with the sharp clink of silverware, forgotten truths, and unspoken resentments.

My mother and sister exchange a few quick glances before Mum offers a slightly uncertain smile.

"Mikayel handed the documents over to Albert's attorney. The case is officially underway."

The day's second disappointment lodges itself in my throat. I cough. Two large swallows of wine finally dislodge the poorly chewed piece of steak trapped in my esophagus.

I can breathe again.

The hundred-and-fifty-pound bottle has finally justified its existence. 

I look at my sister. Anahit doesn't seem affected in the slightest. You'd think the conversation was about three strangers rather than her husband, her attorney, and herself.

I glance toward Father, hoping to catch the smallest flicker of disagreement. Nothing. His expression tells me the news is old. He's known for some time.

Across the table, Hovhannes is busy forcing an oversized piece of steak into his mouth. Meat juice gathers at the corner of his lip. I point at him with my eyes. Anahit notices immediately and gives a small shake of her head.

He doesn't know.

According to Anahit, the marriage is ending because Albert has become unstable.

I don't buy it. As far as I can tell, the divorce began the moment the Najarians went bankrupt.

For the past six months, Anahit has been bringing up divorce at every opportunity while Mother has done her best to temper her more dramatic impulses. Albert's instability, his moods, his behavior—those are the reasons Anahit offers. But none of them feel quite convincing enough to explain what happened. 

Something in the story doesn't add up.

Then again, I've never had the time to examine it too closely. The whole thing began while I was spending half my life in hospitals, dealing with problems of my own.

"Are you sure you're not rushing this?" I ask carefully.

"Aksel, if anything, I've already delayed it by six months."

"Is he still in England?"

"Cambridge. He'll be here in two weeks."

"Dad's coming in two weeks!” Hovhannes perks up immediately, his eyes lighting with excitement.

My chest tightens.

Hovhannes adores his father. For some reason, that fact has always comforted me.

The Najarians had only one child. Albert grew up with the kind of father who was always there: present, attentive, involved. And whatever his flaws, becoming a good parent seemed to come naturally to him.

Albert's father died just four months before the firm's collapse. The loss hit him hard. The bankruptcy that followed hit harder. Between meetings with creditors, former partners, and auditors dissecting the remains of a failed law firm, Albert dealt with the rising tide of grief the only way he knew how: he drank. And yet, during our last few meetings, he never resembled the unstable, dangerous man Anahit describes. If anything, he looked exhausted. Defeated. Lost, perhaps. But not dangerous.

The discrepancy has left an uncomfortable doubt sitting in the back of my mind ever since.